Cap Slap Fever
by Teobi
Summary: Gilligan is sick and there's only one thing causing it. The mighty swing of the Skipper's hat!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'm going to commit the cardinal sin of beginning a new story before 'Hunk of Burning Love' is finished, but I absolutely promise you on my copy of _Gilligan, Maynard and Me_ that both will be completed. This one will be short and sweet and I'll divide it into a couple of chapters because it's too long for a one-shot, which I always like to keep under 5000 words, if possible.

This fic is for (and quite obviously inspired by) Doll Girl, ChocolateChipCookie26 and all you proponents of Skipper maybe being a _bit more gentle_ with his hapless First Mate. Now, I know Skipper loves his Little Buddy, I know Alan Hale and Bob Denver were bffs and they were like Laurel and Hardy and played it for laughs. But sometimes I see that cap come down and I just want to jump in and take the blow for G Man :)

I'm relaxed about reviews. (No, really, I am!) You know how when you're busy and you've just reviewed someone and they update almost right away and you feel obliged to review again. You don't have to. I mean it's lovely if you do, obviously, I love and cherish reviews as much as the next scribbler. But I'm just writing this one for the fun of it.

**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to the majestic Sherwood Schwartz, without whom we would not have these wonderful characters to play with. All fanfiction writing is for fun, not profit.

Enjoy!

**Cap Slap Fever**

Gilligan had lately been complaining of aches and pains, dizziness and nausea and sore, tender headaches that came on without warning, no matter what time of day it was. Seeking out a diagnosis from the Professor, he perched nervously on the edge of the supply hut table swinging his long legs back and forth while the esteemed man of science examined him with his giant stethoscope (made from coconuts, bamboo and not a small amount of blood, sweat and scientific tears). Gilligan breathed loudly in and out as the Professor placed the cup of the stethoscope against his slender chest and adopted a solemn expression.

"Hmm. Your heart rate seems slightly elevated, Gilligan."

"Huh?" said Gilligan, slack jawed.

"Your heart is beating faster than normal."

"Oh." Gilligan thought for a moment before continuing. "Maybe that's because I ran all the way here."

The Professor frowned. "Why did you run?"

Gilligan smiled sheepishly. "To get away from Skipper. He was gonna hit me with his hat for dropping the firewood all over his feet. But Professor, he _knows_ I always drop the firewood on his feet. Why does he always have to stand so close to me all the time? I'm sick of being hit with his dumb hat." Gilligan's voice rose a notch and the Professor could hear the rising panic as Gilligan became even more fidgety on the table.

"Calm down, Gilligan," he said, alarmed. "Your heart rate is going through the roof!"

Gilligan looked up at the greeny brown palm frond ceiling. "It is? I can't see it!"

"It's an expression. Just... just calm down, Gilligan. You're getting yourself all worked up." The Professor clamped both hands onto Gilligan's knees to get the boy to stop jerking around like a moth caught in a jar.

Right then, the loud voice of Captain Jonas Grumby could be heard yelling, "_Gilligaaaaaan!_" from somewhere out in the jungle.

Gilligan clapped a hand to the side of his head. "Ow, ow... Professor, I'm getting a headache. Ow, my neck hurts, too!" The First Mate rolled his head from side to side. "My neck and my shoulders and all of my ribs, and ow, Professor! I feel terrible! Do something!"

The Professor let go of Gilligan's knees and put his hands firmly on the boy's shoulders, deftly dodging a kick to the groin as Gilligan kicked and flailed. "Gilligan! Stop it, calm down! I can't help you if you don't calm down!"

But Gilligan was too far gone. He scrambled down off of the table, landing on the Professor's foot in the process. As the Professor yelped and began hopping around, Gilligan bolted through the door with his hands on his head, crying _ow, ow, ow,_ all the way across the clearing.

The Professor sighed and removed the clunky stethoscope from around his neck just as Ginger peered around the door.

"Everything all right, Professor?"

The Professor gave Ginger a purposely dazed expression which made her smile. "Everything's just fine, Ginger. Fine for _this island_, that is!"

oOoOo

At lunch, Gilligan sat with one bony elbow on the table, chin in hand, ignoring the mildly disapproving looks of Mrs. Howell while he picked at chunks of beautifully grilled fish, pushing them around the plate instead of eating them. Mary Ann glanced at him constantly on her trips to and from the kitchen area, worried about his lack of appetite. The Professor tried to catch the First Mate's eye but Gilligan kept his gaze firmly on his plate. Meanwhile, at the head of the table on Gilligan's right, the Skipper wolfed his fish and roasted vegetables like he hadn't eaten in three weeks.

"Are you going to eat that or just play with it?" he boomed, his fork already hovering halfway between his plate and Gilligan's.

"Go ahead, Skipper," sighed Gilligan. He edged his plate over to the Skipper, who could barely conceal his delight as he stabbed his fork down into the biggest piece of fish he could find and shoved it into his mouth.

Mary Ann put down her platter of fruit and vegetable medley with such a clunk that a piece of pineapple bounced off the platter and into the Professor's lap. She placed her hands on her hips and everyone drew in a breath.

"Skipper, you shouldn't eat Gilligan's lunch. He's hardly touched a bite!"

"Well, maybe he's not hungry!" Skipper mumbled around a mouthful of Gilligan's lunch. "No sense wasting good food!"

"It'll keep for a while longer," Mary Ann insisted, as the Skipper scooped up yet another forkful from Gilligan's plate. "Perhaps he'd like it as a mid-afternoon snack!"

Gilligan shook his head miserably. "No, Mary Ann. No offence but I won't want it later. I've had a stomach ache all morning. I think I'm just gonna go and lie down for a while." He made as if to get up but the Skipper raised his voice around his mouthful of food and started talking before he'd even swallowed.

"Gilligan, it's very bad manners to leave the table before everyone else has finished eating!"

"It's also bad manners to speak with your mouth full," muttered Gilligan, as several small pieces of half chewed fish sprayed onto his shirt sleeve.

"_Gilligan!_ Why, you..." Skipper jumped to his feet and all three of the women automatically winced as they anticipated what would come next. Sure enough, not two seconds later-

_-Whoosh-_

Slap!

Mary Ann was dismayed as the Skipper's peaked cap connected squarely with the top of Gilligan's head, knocking his own floppy sailor's hat to one side.

"Sit down," ordered the Skipper. "Sit down and wait for us all to finish."

Gilligan's butt hit the chair with an audible thump. He glared at the Skipper, who brandished his hat again. After that, Gilligan hunched his shoulders and sat with his arms folded, eyes downcast, staring at nothing.

The other castaways tried to get on with their meal as though nothing untoward had happened, darting their eyes nervously at each other, forks scraping self consciously.

"This is a simply wonderful dish, Mary Ann," Mrs. Howell said, brightly.

"Why thank you, Mrs. Howell!" Mary Ann accepted the awkwardly delivered compliment as graciously as she could, whilst trying to keep her eye on Gilligan.

"Yes, you must let me have the recipe," Mrs. Howell continued, while the others fidgeted. "One gets _so_ tired of caviare and truffles!" She waved her hand through the air as though boring old caviare and truffles made up most of her staple diet back on the East Coast.

"Well, it's just regular grilled fish and fresh picked vegetables from the garden," Mary Ann began, keeping the small talk going. "I soak the fish in a marinade made from..." she broke off mid sentence as Gilligan emitted a long, low moan.

The castaways put down their forks and leaned forward as one.

"Good heavens, dear boy, are you all right?" asked Mr. Howell, genuinely concerned.

The Skipper rolled his eyes. "Don't coddle him, Mr. Howell. He's fine. He's sulking because I wouldn't let him leave the table."

Gilligan moaned again. He slumped forward with his head in his hands, his fingers buried in under his hat. "My head hurts," he whimpered.

"Your head _will_ hurt in a minute," the Skipper warned.

"Captain, I don't think you need to be so harsh," said Mrs. Howell, sternly. "Can't you see there's something the matter?"

Gilligan slumped forward even further and the Skipper let out a gusty sigh. "There is nothing the matter, Mrs. Howell. Aren't we all used to Gilligan's dramatics by now? No offence Ginger, but he's a better actor than you are!"

Ginger, who was seated on Gilligan's left, gave the Skipper a haughty look which instantly made him regret what he'd said about acting. She smoothed the slightly dampened hair back from Gilligan's forehead to get a better look at him. She peered under his hat and stroked the side of his face. "He doesn't look fine to me," she observed. "He looks a bit green."

Gilligan groaned louder and rested his head on his forearms and the Skipper ran both hands over his face.

"Always making me out to be the bad guy," he muttered, half to the castaways and half to himself.

Ginger looked across the table at the Professor, who nodded. "Gilligan, take yourself off to bed," he instructed. "I'll come and see you in a minute."

"Thank you P'fess'r," came Gilligan's mumbled reply.

Ginger helped Gilligan to his rather shaky feet. As the First Mate lifted his head from his arms, they all got a look at how pale and nauseous he appeared. Without another word, Ginger began walking Gilligan to the Boys' Hut. When Skipper made to get up too, the Professor raised his hand, palm facing outwards, stopping the Captain in his tracks.

"Leave him," he said, firmly. "Let him get some rest."

Skipper huffed and blustered, as he always did when his authority was challenged. "But he's my crewman, Professor! He's my responsibility, and I'm telling you that nothing's wrong! He's gotten himself worked up, that's all! He runs around all day like a child, living on nervous energy. Of course he's gonna get sick now and again! All children do!"

The Professor shook his head. "He's not a child, Skipper. He's a 22 year old man and needs to be treated like one."

"I'll treat him like one when he starts behaving like one!" the Skipper bellowed.

Mary Ann suddenly jumped up from the table, almost in tears. "I can't bear all this arguing!" she sobbed, before rushing across the clearing after Ginger and Gilligan.

Mr. Howell looked up furtively from under his bushy eyebrows, his mouth a thin line. Mrs. Howell played with her pearls, her mouth slightly open with no words coming out.

The Professor closed his eyes for a moment while he composed himself, and then he straightened his back and set his shoulders to ease out some painful kinks of his own. "Look, Skipper. I am not trying to tell you what to do, or challenge your leadership. What I _am_ telling you is that Gilligan is sick. There is genuinely something wrong with him. He's been complaining of headaches, nausea and flu-like symptoms for several days, and yet no one else has come down with anything. There are no viruses going around that I know of. Not even the common cold. And yet Gilligan feels ill almost every single day. I've checked his blood pressure, and it's sky high. _Too high_ for someone of his age. What does that tell you?"

"It tells me I should have renewed his medical insurance," the Skipper joked, but stopped smiling when he realised no one else was laughing.

"I'm serious," said the Professor.

"Well, gee- I would never have guessed," retorted the Skipper.

"Gilligan is suffering from an illness," said the Professor, gearing up for a lecture. "An illness presenting itself as a general malaise that can be attributed to any number of ailments such as colds, influenza, gastro enteritis, glandular fever, allergies, anxiety, depression, chest infection, migraine headaches, ulcers, constipation, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, croup, diabetes, diarrhea..."

Mrs. Howell coughed ever so politely and put her hand in front of her mouth.

"... diptheria, irritable bowel syndrome, meningococcal disease, localised neck pain, inflammation of the..."

Skipper threw his hands up in surrender. "All right, all right, I get the picture! Gilligan is sick! My Little Buddy is sick, really, really _sick!_" The big man's face crumpled like a wet paper bag. "Gilligan is sick, and I should have been the first one to notice. Instead I just made fun of him."

Mr. Howell put his hand out and tentatively patted the Skipper on the shoulder. Comforting people didn't come naturally to him, and it showed. "There there, Captain, it's not your fault. Gilligan's always looked a little drawn, if you ask me."

"Well, I wasn't asking you, but thanks anyway," the Skipper sniffled, beginning to tear up.

The Professor folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Out of all those ailments I just mentioned, my money is on anxiety. My considerable background in psychology leads me to believe that Gilligan is suffering from Acute Anxiety Disorder."

"Egads!" cried Mr. Howell. "Is it contagious?"

"No," said the Professor, glancing at the flustered millionaire. "But it _can_ be debilitating."

"Thank goodness! I'm safe!" Mr. Howell gasped, mopping his glistening brow and clutching his hand over his wildly palpitating heart.

The Skipper blinked several times. He took off his cap and scratched his head. "Gilligan? Anxious? Why, he's the most laid back guy I've ever known!"

"Is he?" asked the Professor, pointedly. "You may think so, Skipper, but I saw first hand the way he reacted to the sound of your voice and the fear that you were going to hit him with that cap of yours. He tensed up like a coiled spring, his heart rate soared and he became agitated, nervous and panicky. Soon after he began displaying physical symptoms- headache, sweating, dizziness, neck and shoulder pain, even chest pain."

The Skipper gulped. "But that doesn't sound like Gilligan," he protested. "When we were in the Navy, Gilligan was always the one who kept everyone's spirits up. Gilligan was the joker in the pack, the one who made everyone laugh. When we bought the Minnow together, Gilligan was the one who encouraged people to take the tour by being so gosh darned funny and lovable! What on earth could possibly be making _Gilligan_ anxious?"

The Professor made direct eye contact with the Skipper, creating a dramatic pause that had both of the Howells staring at him as though he were about to score a match point at tennis. "Not a what, a who," he said solemnly.

"Then who?" the Skipper asked, impatiently. "For gosh sakes', Professor- _who_?"

"You," the Professor answered, simply. "Gilligan is anxious because of _you_."


	2. Chapter 2

The Skipper sank back in his seat like a balloon slowly deflating. The Howells swivelled their heads in unison to the other end of the table, eager for this tennis match to be over.

"Me?" the big man squeaked. "Gilligan is anxious because of _me_?"

The Professor nodded, gravely. "He's constantly anticipating a whack from your hat. It's come to the point where he's walking around tensed up like a spring. His muscles contract, causing him tension headaches and pain. He's in 'fight or flight' mode almost every minute of the day, just in case he does something to cause you to hit him."

"'_To hit him'_? Gee, Professor, make it sound like I'm some kind of bully, why don't you?!"

The Professor kept his eyes firmly locked on the Skipper. He was determined not to back down or say anything to appease Jonas Grumby, no matter how shocked and dismayed the big man looked right now. But it was Mrs. Howell who spoke up before the man of science could formulate the right words to say, not to mention the correct order in which to say them so as not to cause further provocation.

"You _do_ hit him, though, Captain! We've all seen you do it! Sometimes you hit him simply for _saying_ the wrong thing. If he's near enough and you can reach him, off comes the hat and 'smack' onto his head! It's quite unnerving at times!"

The Skipper turned his whole body in the chair and stared at Mrs. Howell in disbelief. "It's not as bad as that, Mrs. Howell! I don't ... I mean, I... I don't punish him _unduly._ A guy like Gilligan needs to be disciplined! If someone didn't keep him in line, there's no telling what disasters he'd be capable of!"

The Professor cleared his throat and stepped quickly back into the fray. "Skipper, here's an example. Yesterday, Mary Ann stumbled in the sand and tipped a pitcher of mango juice down your back. Did you respond by slapping her with your hat?"

"Of course not!" the Skipper replied. "It was an accident!"

"But then later on when we were telling campfire stories, Gilligan elbowed you in the stomach. What did you do in response?"

"It hurt!" the Skipper protested. "Do you know how sharp Gilligan's elbows are?"

"But it was an _accident_. Just like it was an accident when Mary Ann spilled the mango juice. Just like we all have accidents."

The Skipper scrunched up his face like a child who knew he was in the wrong but wasn't going to admit it. "If you think I'm going to hit a woman then you're out of your supposedly intelligent mind," he said, firmly. "Besides, Gilligan made it worse by saying it was a target he could hardly miss."

Mrs. Howell brightened suddenly. "I know!" she declared, bouncing excitedly in her seat. "Why don't we dress Gilligan as a woman? That would soon put a stop to all this nonsense!"

Three pairs of eyes turned and stared at Mrs. Howell as if she'd just grown another head.

"Oh, poo," she muttered. "_I_ think it would work."

After a moment of staring at Mrs. Howell in wide eyed disbelief, the Skipper pushed his chair back and stood up. "Clearly we're not getting anywhere here," he rumbled. "If there's a problem then I need to hear it from Gilligan's mouth and no one else's." He stared pointedly at the Professor. "_If that's okay with everyone_?"

The Professor shook his head as Jonas Grumby took a few steps away from the table. "Skipper, listen to me. I think..." but the Skipper silenced him with a surprisingly angry and intense glare- the kind of glare that must have had young crewmen shaking in their shoes back in his Navy days.

"That's the trouble with you, Professor! You do too much thinking! Well, here's some news for you. I'm not so much into thinking myself. I prefer to _act_!"

With that, the Skipper shoved his hat into place, tugged on the peak as a kind of flip off to the Professor, and made his way resolutely towards the hut he shared with his First Mate and friend, his Little Buddy Gilligan.

oOoOo

Gilligan lay in his hammock with Ginger on one side and Mary Ann on the other, both girls staring down into his pale and sickly looking face.

"I feel like an idiot," he said, mournfully.

"You're not an idiot, Gilligan," said Mary Ann, gently. "You're sick and you should rest, and not feel ashamed or embarrassed about it."

"I always become the centre of attention somehow, even when I don't want to be. Even when I go off to my cave, everyone makes a big scene and I end up having to come back."

Ginger and Mary Ann exchanged a glance.

"It's because we care about you, Gilligan," said Ginger. "If we didn't care about you we'd just leave you in that silly old cave to fend for yourself all night. With spiders, and monkeys, and lizards, and who knows what else!"

Gilligan sighed. "Those things don't scare me. Sometimes I just want to be alone."

Mary Ann brushed the bangs away from his forehead. He looked at her with his bright eyes unusually dulled. "How long have you been feeling this way, Gilligan? How long have you been sick?"

"It comes and goes," Gilligan admitted. "Sometimes I'm fine, but other times, it's like I weigh a ton and I feel like I'm going to throw up and I'm scared for no reason. Like when you're trapped in a nightmare and you can't wake up. My whole body hurts."

"And do you know what brings it on? Can you pinpoint whatever it is that sets you off?"

Gilligan stuck out his lower lip and thought for a few moments. "I don't know for sure," he said, softly. "But I do know that when Skipper hits me with his hat, it makes everything get worse. If I have a headache already, then it becomes a super headache. If my stomach feels bad, then it becomes really bad, like I couldn't even eat a little bitty piece of coconut creme pie. And you know how much I love coconut creme pie!"

"This is serious," said Ginger, solemnly.

"More so that we thought," agreed Mary Ann.

"Am I gonna die?" asked Gilligan, plaintively.

"No, Gilligan," said Ginger, stroking his cheek. "Not if we can help it."

Gilligan looked up into the movie star's emerald eyes and smiled weakly. "I don't wanna die before we're rescued."

Ginger smiled back. "You won't," she reassured him. "Unless of course we don't get rescued until we're in our 80s."

Mary Ann's brow furrowed in a pretty frown. "It sounds to me as though you've developed a reaction to the Skipper," she said, holding onto the side of the hammock. "Gilligan, remember when you thought the Skipper was allergic to you, and it turned out to be your hair oil? Well, this time it's you that's developed a reaction to the Skipper! This time it's you with the aches and pains and feelings of sickness!"

"Skipper doesn't make me sneeze," said Gilligan, puzzled.

"Allergies come in all forms," Mary Ann went on, her enthusiasm for the subject intensifying. "Not just sneezing, but headaches, nausea, trouble breathing and sometimes even skin rashes!"

Ginger pulled her hand away from Gilligan's face as though he'd suddenly broken out in the most contagious rash ever. "Eew," she muttered.

"You only have to _think_ about the Skipper slapping you with his hat, and you start to feel ill," said Mary Ann, beaming brightly.

Gilligan pulled a face and put his hands on his stomach. "You're right, Mary Ann. I'm starting to feel ill."

"You only have to imagine the Skipper pulling that hat off his head, and..."

Gilligan began turning green. "Mary Ann, please stop..."

Just then the door to the hut flew open and the Skipper barrelled in, breathless and panicky. "Where is he? Where's my Little Buddy?" he cried, like someone whose best friend had just been swept overboard by a wave.

Gilligan's cheeks puffed out and his eyes went wide and fearful. He turned even paler and the girls instinctively stepped away from the hammock.

"Mary Ann," said Ginger, worriedly, "Gilligan doesn't look too good..."

The Skipper ran across the hut to the hammocks. "Gilligan! Gilligan, there you are! Oh, Gilligan, are you okay? The Professor said you were sick! _Really_ sick!" He thrust his big face at Gilligan, who winced and pressed himself down into the hammock.

"Skipper, I don't think you should..." began Ginger.

But the Skipper was done listening to other people. "Gilligan, we need to talk," he said, frantically. He put his big, meaty hands on Gilligan's shoulders and Gilligan let out a confused yelp and flew up out of the hammock, tipping the whole thing over. He fell onto the Skipper who fell back against Ginger, knocking her into the palm frond wall. The movie star let out a pained gasp and the Skipper's face turned instantly thunderous.

"Gilligaaaan!" he shouted, his mood switching like Jekyll to Hyde. "Why don't you watch what you're doing!?" He swiped the hat off his head and before either of the girls could stop him, he swung it through the air and down onto Gilligan's head where it landed with a resounding _thwap_. Gilligan groaned loudly, clamped his hand over his mouth, and staggered out of the hut to throw up in the sand.

The girls cast dismayed looks at each other, then caught sight of the Professor and the Howells standing at the window like puppets in a puppet show booth. Having witnessed the entire incident, all three of them shook their heads slowly in disapproval.

The Skipper glowered at the Professor. "All right, Professor. Say 'I told you so'."

The Professor just glared at him, saying nothing.

Skipper rolled his eyes and muttered glumly to himself. "I don't know what's worse, you giving me a lecture or you giving me the silent treatment."

Mary Ann ran out of the hut to comfort Gilligan. Ginger brushed palm frond dust off her shoulders and arms and patted her hair back into place while the Howells made small talk among themselves and the Professor and the Skipper continued to eyeball each other. Finally, Mr. Howell spoke up.

"I say, Professor, I think there's only one thing left to do. I believe my darling wife made an earlier suggestion... ?"

The Skipper and the Professor both turned their steely eyes onto the grinning millionaire.

"Surely, Mrs. Howell, you weren't being serious?" said the Professor, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, but I was, Professor. I was," said the delighted socialite. "If the Captain simply cannot stop hitting Gilligan, but he refuses to strike a lady, then there's only one thing left to do."

The Skipper buried his face in his hands. The Professor tucked one hand under his arm and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Ginger looked puzzled, and Mary Ann, who had just escorted the ashen faced Gilligan back into the hut, cast a curious glance around at all of her fellow castaways, sensing that something was afoot.

With all eyes on her, Mrs. Howell paused a moment longer to make completely sure she had everyone's attention, then she clapped her hands together and made her announcement. "I think it's time we brought back Gillianna!"


	3. Chapter 3

Gilligan stood in the middle of the Howells' hut, a picture of dejection. On his head was a beautiful, bouffant wig made from weaving two other wigs together; the original blonde one he wore as Gillianna when he tried to attract King Killiwani away from the women, and a lustrous, gleaming brunette hairpiece that they found in the crate salvaged from the sunken yacht in the lagoon. The girls had had a field day applying makeup to his scowling face. They accentuated his blue/green eyes with smoky grey eyeshadow, smudged kohl and mascara, they contoured his cheeks with rouge, covered his stubble with concealer, and brought out the natural fullness of his lips with lipliner, coral pink lipstick and shimmering lipgloss. He fidgeted and squirmed throughout the entire process, which got him nowhere. There was no escaping the fact that once again, Gilligan was being forced to drag up for some crazy scheme concocted by one of the others- this time, Mrs. Howell.

The Professor walked in a circle around the sullen sailor, clinically observing him from all angles while Gilligan tugged at the long, flowing green skirt that clung possessively to his skinny hips.

"I still don't see why we couldn't just take away the Skipper's hat," he grumbled.

The Professor shook his head. "Taking away the hat won't cure the problem, Gilligan. We need to get to the root cause of why the Skipper hits you. Taking away the hat would be like dressing a gaping wound with a tiny little bandaid."

"Besides," interjected the Skipper, "this hat is my identity! This hat says I'm the Captain! I'm the one in charge!" He threw Mr. Howell a sidelong glance, but the millionaire just feigned a yawn and smacked his lips as though bored.

"_Your_ identity?! What about _my_ identity?" Gilligan shouted, drawing unnecessary attention to himself.

The Skipper's eyes darted over Gilligan and a fleeting look of shame crossed his face before he pulled himself upright and puffed out his chest. "Gilligan, you are my subordinate and I outrank you. The hat stays!"

"The hat stays and I have to wear _all of this_?" Gilligan jangled his earrings and flipped his pearls that were borrowed from Mrs. Howell, teetering dangerously off balance on Ginger's high heels.

"But you look simply _darling,_ Gilligan!" Mrs. Howell fussed with his silk blouse, nipping and tucking it into the skirt. "You'd fit in perfectly at the Country Club cocktail hour!"

"As what?" muttered Mr. Howell. "The entertainment?"

"Gilligan," said Mary Ann kindly, sensing her friend's discomfort, "this is only temporary. Besides, it's not so bad being a girl. You'll see, once you spend enough time with us doing girl things."

"Mary Ann's right," said Ginger, flashing Gilligan a Hollywood-bright smile. "We can have fun, all girls together! Just think, Gilligan. No more lifting heavy firewood or chopping logs or pulling lobster traps out of the lagoon! From now on, you're one of us!"

Gilligan thought about this for a moment and then a slow grin of realisation crossed his heavily made up features. "Yeeeaaahhh," he murmured. "No more heavy lifting, no more hard work, no more running all over the island. Yeeahhhh!"

The Skipper looked startled. "Now, wait a minute here, Gilligan. Who's going to.. I mean... the firewood, the water buckets, the lobster traps, _coconuts._ Who's gonna gather coconuts?"

"Not this girl, that's for sure," said Gilligan in a high pitched woman's voice.

"Girls don't do hard labour," said Mary Ann, smiling her brightest smile at the Skipper. "Gillianna can help us with the cooking, cleaning and laundry instead."

The Skipper glared at the Professor, and to a lesser extent, Mrs. Howell. "Did either of you foresee this?" he asked, irritably.

The Professor and Mrs. Howell shook their heads mutely.

"Well, that's just great!" The Skipper scratched under his hat, then took the hat off and examined it closely. He looked from the hat to Gilligan, then back at the hat. Gilligan looked at the hat too, and gulped audibly. When the girls saw the scared look on his face, they closed protectively around him.

"Maybe giving up the hat wouldn't be such a bad idea," the Skipper muttered, mentally weighing up the consequences of handing over his most treasured possession.

"Don't cave in, Skipper," said the Professor. "Remember, root cause!"

"That's right, Skipper," Mary Ann nodded. "If you give up your hat then you'll never learn not to use it as a weapon!"

"A _weapon_?" the Skipper blustered. "Gee, Mary Ann, it's hardly a ship's cannon! Why it doesn't even have much of a band any more, the amount of times I've softened it on..." he broke off suddenly, as if realising just what he'd been about to imply.

"On?" prompted the Professor.

"On... well, taking it off and on all the time." The Skipper turned coy, twiddling his fingers the way Oliver Hardy did when trying to weasel his way out of another fine mess.

"Hitting me on the head with it," Gilligan butted in, although everyone had already drawn the same conclusion.

"Giligan's right," said Ginger. "You hit him so much your hat has gone soft!"

"Like his head," muttered Mr. Howell.

"I heard that," glowered the Skipper.

"Mais oui," Mr. Howell smiled.

"And that's why I need to wear this hat," Skipper said. "Because I barely get the respect I command even when I _am_ wearing it! Imagine the anarchy if I didn't!"

The castaways shuffled guiltily, even the Professor, but no one said anything.

"All right," said the Skipper, letting out a breath he wasn't even aware he'd been holding. "We'll give this plan a try. But listen to me, Gilligan, if you dare start using this as an excuse to get out of doing your chores," he brandished the hat in an unspoken warning at the bewigged First Mate.

"Who's Gilligan?" the sailor grinned, twirling around so that his skirt billowed around his skinny legs.

"Gilligan," said Mary Ann, putting a restraining hand on Gilligan's arm.

"You mean _Gillianna_," said Gilligan, primping his wig and fluttering his eyelashes.

The Skipper turned red as a beetroot, a very angry beetroot. "Gilligaaaaannn...!"

"Come on girls," said Gilligan, hooking his arms through each of the girls' arms so that they were on either side and he was in the middle. "I don't care for the way that nasty man is looking at me. Let's go pick some flowers!"

Mary Ann threw the Skipper a look of amused apology as she, Gilligan and Ginger skipped out of the hut. After they were gone, the Skipper threw himself down into a chair and spread his arms out across the Howells' table full of Mrs. Howell's perfume bottles and jewelry boxes.

"Someone pinch me and wake me up from this nightmare," he moaned. Mrs. Howell went over and pinched him and he yelped. "I didn't mean, literally," he grunted, rubbing the sore spot on his arm.

"Skipper, the sooner you learn to control your impulses around Gilligan, the sooner we can take him out of those girl's clothes and restore the status quo," said the Professor, learnedly. "Remember, this is all because of you."

"Gee, thanks," Skipper grumbled. "There's just one thing, Professor."

"And what's that?" the Professor asked, mildly.

"You do realise that Gilligan is about to become _more annoying than ever_?"


	4. Chapter 4

Gilligan wasted no time in taking advantage of this new situation. Summoned by the Skipper to the foot of a particularly tall coconut tree, at the summit of which a cluster of ripened nuts beckoned, he looked the Skipper directly in the eye and refused point blank to climb it.

"Gilligan, you do as I say and that's an order," the Skipper growled.

"It's Gillianna," Gilligan pouted, "and I am not climbing that dirty tree in this nice, clean dress."

The Skipper winced at what he considered to be a grotesque parody of womanhood. His hand twitched towards his hat, but the Professor, who had accompanied Gilligan to make sure everyone played fair, put his hand out and stayed the big man's arm.

"Remember, Skipper, you mustn't hit a lady," he said, biting back a smile.

Resisting the urge to use the hoary old line, 'that's no lady, that's my wife', the Skipper lowered his arm and froze Gilligan with an icy glare. "Gilligan, we need coconuts, and I need you to climb that tree. You're the only one who knows how."

Gilligan looked around with a puzzled frown.

"What are you doing?" the Skipper barked.

"I'm looking for this person you call 'Gilligan'," Gilligan replied, batting his eyelashes sweetly.

"That does it!" snapped the Skipper, pulling the hat off his head.

"Skipper, no!" shouted the Professor, grabbing at the hat while Gilligan ducked behind him.

"Just once, Professor, just once!" The Skipper tried desperately to reach the First Mate, whose jewelry rattled and clanked as he dodged from side to side, trying to avoid the big man's flailing arm.

"Skipper, can't you see, this is part of the test!" the Professor gasped, stuck between the red faced Captain and his antagonistic crewman. "If you can resist hitting Gilligan, no matter how annoying he's being, then you're halfway there!"

"Halfway where? To insanity?"

The beleaguered Professor finally restored calm by resorting to force. He pushed Gilligan to one side and halted the Skipper's advances. Gilligan wobbled on his heels, fussed over his skirts, patted his untidy wig into place, dabbed at his lipstick and muttered in a ridiculous high pitched squeak how men were such beasts. "Wait 'til I tell Ginger and Mary Ann about this," he sulked, glaring moodily at the Skipper.

"Well, if no one's going to climb this tree then I guess we won't have any coconuts," the Skipper declared, folding his arms stubbornly. "And do you know what no coconuts means, Gillianna? It means, no coconut creme pies."

Gilligan stopped muttering. His mouth fell open and his face blanched under his panstick makeup. He gathered his skirts in both hands and immediately made for the tree. It took all of the Professor's strength to stop him from scooting up it in record time.

"Let me at those coconuts!" Gilligan pleaded, desperately.

"Gillianna, ladies don't climb trees, remember?"

"This lady does!"

The Professor gave one mighty yank and Gilligan peeled away from the trunk which he had been hugging with both arms.

"Gillianna! Please!"

Gilligan almost fell over onto his be-skirted rump. "No coconut creme pies!" he bleated. "How will I live?"

The Skipper grinned smugly. "Well, gee, _Gillianna,_ I don't know!"

The Professor also folded his arms. He regarded the Skipper silently until the big man noticed he had been placed under scrutiny and turned to stare questioningly at the man of science.

"You know, Skipper, you could always climb the tree yourself," the Professor smiled.

The Skipper blustered wildly. "Me? What about you? What's stopping you? Afraid you might fall and hurt that oversized brain of yours?"

"Now look here," the Professor said, indignantly.

"No, you look here! You're the one who got us into this mess, you and your bright ideas!"

"This was Mrs. Howell's idea, if you recall!"

"Well, then- let's ask Mrs. Howell to climb the tree, shall we?"

While the Skipper and the Professor bickered back and forth, Gilligan quietly made his escape. He backed away from the two men until he was sure they had both forgotten he was even there, then he turned and sneaked off down the nearest jungle path, trying not to rattle his jewelry as he fled on Ginger's heels. His thoughts were full of all the coconut creme pies he wouldn't be eating that day, or any other day for that matter. But he was also highly amused at the Skipper's lack of tree climbing skills and the knowledge that he, Gilligan, really was the only one who knew how to climb those slender, branchless trunks. It was nice to have skills that the others lacked, skills that they depended upon. The more he thought about it, the more Gilligan realised that these skills alone put him in a position of power.

It was the same an hour later when the Skipper needed someone to collect firewood. Gilligan refused, saying he might break a nail. The Skipper thundered and the Professor intervened and an almost identical back and forth argument ensued. But this time, the Skipper trudged off into the jungle with the axe and cart, knowing that this time he had no excuse not to do the job himself.

Gilligan also refused to go fishing, saying that fish were smelly and wriggly and might pull him over in the sand. He refused to go fruit picking because the jungle was full of bugs. He couldn't go into the lagoon to check the lobster traps because he would get wet and they were too heavy and a lobster might pinch his 'delicate skin'. Each time the Skipper's fingers twitched towards his hat, and each time the Professor intervened. The man of science was getting more and more tired of keeping the peace between the warring sailors, but Gilligan showed no signs of stopping his antagonistic behaviour and in fact appeared to be relishing his role as Gillianna more and more as the day went on.

"This is what happens when you let Mrs. Howell make the decisions," the Professor muttered to Ginger as the movie star passed him in the clearing.

"Speaking of Mrs. Howell, I notice she hasn't been around lately," Ginger smiled.

"I think she's keeping a low profile," said the Professor, "And wisely so!"

Ginger looked towards the trees to see the Skipper returning from the jungle with armloads of bananas and mangoes which he'd been forced to pick himself. His shirt was stained with sweat, he was panting, and his big, ruddy face bore the sort of scowl that only his Little Buddy was capable of evoking.

"Any sign of Gilligan?" Ginger asked the Professor.

"Last I saw, he was sitting by the lagoon filing his nails."

Ginger laughed and shook her head. "Is that so? Well, Mary Ann and I will soon put a stop to that."

Gilligan looked up at the sky and saw that the afternoon was pressing on. He put his nail file away, gathered up his skirts and made his way back to the huts from the lagoon. He was feeling mighty pleased with himself. Not only had he gotten out of all his usual chores, he'd also managed to irritate the Skipper without being capslapped. What's more, he hadn't felt a single twinge of pain or bout of nausea in doing so! Perhaps things were looking up after all!

He tripped gaily towards the girls' hut, hoping for a nice relaxing gossip session or perhaps an hour of sitting at the vanity while either Ginger or Mary Ann coddled him, brushing his wig or trying on new make up. Maybe he would borrow Ginger's emerald bracelet to wear at dinner, or Mary Ann's yellow ribbons to decorate his hair.

He tapped briefly on the door before waltzing in as though he lived there. "Hi, girls!" he trilled, in his screechy woman's voice that was like nails down a blackboard.

But instead of Ginger and Mary Ann lounging around painting their nails or combing their hair, he was dismayed to find a laundry basket heaped up with a mountain of soiled clothing sitting in the middle of the hut.

"There you are," said Mary Ann, with her hands on her hips. "We've been waiting all afternoon for you."

"Who, me?" squeaked Gilligan.

Ginger thrust a box of detergent at him, whacking it soundly against his chest. "Yes, you, Doris Day."

Gilligan's face fell.

"And after you've done the laundry and hung it up to dry, there's the huts to be swept and vegetables to be gathered for dinner."

"What about... can't you...?"

Mary Ann flicked a dustcloth at him, cutting him off. "Oh, Ginger and I have plenty of chores, don't you worry about that. You know the saying, 'a woman's work is never done'!"

Gilligan trudged over to the laundry basket and lifted it with a grimace. "This is even heavier than a bag of coconuts," he grumbled.

"You didn't think we were going to give you an easy ride, did you?" smirked Ginger.

Gilligan struggled towards the door with one of Mrs. Howell's chiffon scarves covering his face. "Whatever happened to the sisterhood?"

"There'll be plenty of time for that later," said Mary Ann. "Say around midnight, when the day's work is finally done."

"Midnight?! I'll be exhausted by then!"

"Now you know how we feel, cooking and cleaning and picking up after you boys all the time," said Ginger, without a trace of sympathy.

Gilligan wobbled out of the door, promptly fell off his heels and dropped the laundry basket on the ground, scattering dirty clothes everywhere.

"Oh dear," said Ginger, concealing a wide smile behind her hand. "Now they're dirtier than ever."

Gilligan pulled up his skirts and got down on his knees to pick up the scattered clothes. At the same time he caught the eye of the exhausted Skipper, who was returning from the lagoon with one of the lobster traps. Both men glanced quickly at each other then dropped their gazes in a mixture of sheepish embarrassment, pride, and shame. But neither of them spoke to the other, and both of them quietly persisted with the ridiculous charade that had been imposed on them by other people.


	5. Chapter 5

After a tiring two hours doing the laundry, a process made harder by skirts that tangled round his legs and a wig that kept slipping down over his eyes, Gilligan staggered into his hut and, too spent to climb up into his own sack, flopped into the Skipper's hammock and promptly fell fast asleep. Fifteen minutes later he was roused from a dream full of chocolate covered hamburgers by the altogether unpleasant taste of sand in his mouth, having been unceremoniously dumped out of the hammock by a very red faced Captain Jonas Grumby. "Hey, what gives- ?" he spluttered.

"This is the Boys Hut," said the Skipper, pulling Gilligan to his feet. "No girls allowed."

Gilligan wiped sand off his lips, hating the feel of it stuck to his lipstick- hating the fact that he was wearing lipstick in the first place. "But Skipper, I'm bushed! I've spent all afternoon working!"

"And what do you think I've been doing, dancing the Fandango? I've had to chop wood, collect fruit, dig a drainage ditch- no, make that_ two_ drainage ditches,_ and_ top up the fresh water tank, _all by myself!_" The Skipper dabbed his ruddy, glistening forehead with an already damp handkerchief. "If anyone needs a rest, it's me!"

Gilligan straightened his dress and adjusted his wig. "Can't you give a girl a break?" he wheedled.

"No, I can't. Go sleep in your own hut, Brunhilda- it would be improper for you to stay here." The Skipper took Gilligan by the shoulders and steered him firmly towards the door. Gilligan held tightly onto the frame with both hands, resisting the Skipper's shoves with all his might, but it was clear that his puny musculature was no match for the larger man's brute force.

"I didn't like sleeping in your stupid hammock anyway," he announced, knowing that he'd lost the battle. "It's all stretched out because you're s..."

The Skipper's fingers twitched towards his hat. "Yes?" he dared, his brow lowering.

Gilligan's kohl rimmed eyes flickered towards the Skipper's hand, hovering threateningly close to the peak of his cap. Normally he would have backpedaled right now and finished with something like, '_such a heavy sleeper_', but this time he steeled himself and shouted, "... **so fat**!"

"Why, you!" shouted the Skipper, pulling off his hat.

"You wouldn't dare hit a lady!" Gilligan shot back, sticking out his rather lopsided, sock-filled 'bosom'.

The Skipper rammed the hat back down onto his head. "Get out," he rumbled. "Get out before I throw you out!"

Gilligan gathered up his skirts and flounced out of the hut, winking as he passed the bemused Professor who had undoubtedly heard the whole exchange. Behind him in the hut, the Skipper slumped into his newly vacated hammock and lay there grumbling to himself before finally falling asleep and snoring 'like a jet engine with asthma', as Gilligan had once described it.

"Back for more?" teased Mary Ann, when Gilligan appeared at the door to the Girls' Hut.

"Just let me sit down - I promise I'll be quiet. You won't even hear me breathe."

Both girls stifled their giggles as Gilligan clanked and clattered across the hut. "Maybe we overdid it with the jewelry," said Ginger, with a smile.

Gilligan sank down into the nearest chair with a happy sigh. "Boy. Women's work is harder than I thought."

"Nonsense," said Mary Ann. "You help with the laundry all the time. Why is it suddenly harder?"

"Because of this dress, and this wig, and these earrings, and because women are weaker than men."

Mary Ann put her hands on her hips. "Gilligan, that's not true! Women are just as capable as men!"

Gilligan flashed a cheeky grin. "Just don't tell the Skipper or he'll try to make me climb the coconut tree again." Bending over to rub the back of his ankle, he added nonchalantly, "Speaking of the Skipper, he just tossed me out of the Boys Hut, so looks like I'll be sleeping with you guys tonight." Misconstruing the shocked look that passed between Ginger and Mary Ann, he quickly corrected himself. "I mean,_ girls_."

"Wait a minute," Ginger protested. "This wasn't in the agreement!"

"Aw, c'mon, Ginger. It'll be fun. Like the time I had to sleep here 'cause my hair tonic made the Skipper sneeze."

"That wasn't 'fun'," Ginger retorted. "And you made us sneeze, too."

"It was fun! I liked being a girl. You don't snore like Skipper does."

"We didn't snore because we couldn't get any sleep!"

"Well, he won't let me stay in my own hut, so unless you make me spend the night outside, you've got no choice." Gilligan's grin was smug, until he noticed another look pass between the girls. "Tell me you're not gonna make me spend the night outside," he said, apprehensively.

Ginger sighed in unison with Mary Ann rolling her eyes. The girls were fast becoming a double act of disapproval, Gilligan decided, while he waited for their joint response. "All right," she nodded. "You can stay here_ just for tonight_. But you'd better not be any trouble!"

"Me? Trouble?" Gilligan fluttered his eyelashes, but the girls' expressions remained unchanged. "Okay, okay- I get it. Gee, you girls sure drive a hard bargain."

"This whole thing was Mrs. Howell's idea," Ginger muttered as she and Mary Ann set about fixing up a temporary cot. "I don't see why you can't share _their_ hut."

"I get depressed listening to Mr. Howell counting money in his sleep," said Gilligan, watching the girls from the comfort of his chair.

"I've a good mind to tell the Skipper to take you back," the movie star went on, shaking a pillow at the First Mate. "After all, it's not as if anyone would mistake you for a_ real_ woman."

Gilligan feigned distress, primping his wig with both hands. "I bet I could walk down any street in Hollywood and be asked for autographs," he asserted.

"Only if the Freak Show was in town," said Ginger, smiling sweetly.

"You're just jealous," Gilligan retorted. "I bet I could get a date with Rock Hudson before you could."

Ginger eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing.

"Don't worry, Ginger," said Mary Ann, blowing the hair out of her eyes as she fussed around the makeshift bed. "Everything will be right back to normal, just as soon as Skipper learns to stop hitting Gilligan."

"But that could be months!" Ginger wailed.

"Oh, Ginger. It won't be months."

"You're right. It could be _years_!" Ginger folded her arms and regarded Gilligan, who was now sitting quietly with his mouth shut, trying to look inconspicuous. "Gilligan, why don't you just try not to annoy the Skipper? Then he wouldn't get angry enough to hit you, and everyone's lives would be so much easier, including yours."

Mary Ann tucked a blanket under the flimsy mattress and tweaked it until it met with her approval. "If you ask me, I don't think the Skipper should be hitting Gilligan _at all_," she declared. "I don't think it's fair. He's never hit anyone else for making mistakes. And don't tell me no one else makes mistakes. Why, just the other morning I served up the breakfast eggs with the soup ladle. I've never been so embarrassed!"

Ginger and Gilligan both stared at her.

"All right, perhaps that's not quite on the same scale as Gilligan dropping coconuts on the Skipper's head, or starting accidental fires, or using up the last of our water, or ruining the Professor's experiments, or..."

"I get the idea," said Gilligan, raising his hands to cut her off. "You don't have to say it. I'm a klutz and I deserve it, and if it wasn't starting to make me sick, I'd carry on taking it like the dumb idiot I am."

"I didn't say that," Mary Ann protested. "Don't put words in my mouth- I was trying to _defend_ you."

Gilligan's shoulders slumped and his face grew solemn under the layers of makeup. "I know, Mary Ann. Truth is, I've been friends with Skipper for so long now that I don't think either of us is gonna change. Old habits die hard- I guess I'm destined to be hit with his hat forever." He put a hand to his head and grimaced. "Ow," he sighed. "I can feel a headache coming on just thinking about it. Ow. OW!"

Mary Ann instinctively went to his side. "Don't think like that, Gilligan. Things will get better, you'll see." She cupped his bewigged head and pulled him towards her, making little soothing, shushing noises while Ginger shook her head in disbelief.

Gilligan's expression shifted as his face hovered close to Mary Ann's bosom. "I think I'd feel better if I lay down," he said in a tremulous little voice as she stroked his cheek. "That bed you made up sure does look comfortable."

"Oh, brother," sighed Ginger. "I mean... oh, sister!"

"Come on then," said Mary Ann, helping him up from the chair. "Seeing as you've had such a hard day and all."

Ginger watched in wide eyed amazement as Mary Ann ushered Gilligan over to the newly made bed and urged him to lie down. He lowered himself gently onto the mattress, groaning as though he were in tremendous pain. "That's just great," she murmured. "The Skipper doesn't want him and now _we're_ stuck with him."

"Is that better?" Mary Ann asked, softly, tucking the blanket around Gilligan's shoulders.

Gilligan nodded, gazing up at her with big, doe eyes.

"This is like a scene from a movie," said Ginger. "A horror movie!"

"Oh, shush, Ginger," smiled Mary Ann. "It won't hurt for Gilligan to take it easy for a few hours. Let him rest and regain his strength."

"Yeah, let me rest and regain my strength," echoed Gilligan, closing his eyes and settling into the mattress.

"Then, after he wakes up, he'll be nicely refreshed and ready to start work again."

"Yeah. After I wake up, I'll be nicely refreshed and ready to... wait a minute!" Gilligan's eyes snapped open. "What do you mean, 'start work again'?"

"Why, there's dinner to be made and after dinner there are dishes to be washed," said Mary Ann with a bright smile. "You didn't think you were going to get away with doing nothing, did you?"

"But I'm sick!"

"Yes, in the head," muttered Ginger.

Gilligan hoisted himself up onto his elbows. "I don't know how to make dinner," he ranted. "Besides, if I were a man, my chores would be over by dinner and I wouldn't have to do any more work until morning!"

Ginger bent down and put her nose just inches from his. "But you're not a man, are you, _Gilliana_?"

Gilligan thrust out his lower lip. "You girls sure do play dirty," he grumbled.

"But at least we don't hit you with our hats," Ginger smiled.

Gilligan fell back onto the pillow with a surly grunt. "I think my headache just got a whole lot worse," he muttered.

Meanwhile, in the Boys Hut, the Skipper had awoken after a restless sleep that left him more tired than ever. He stared up at the ceiling through the empty netting of Gilligan's hammock and sighed.

"It sure is quiet without my little buddy," he said softly to himself. "I never thought I'd miss his non stop jabbering. Why, the sound of his pointless droning is the only thing that gets me off to sleep!" He pulled off his Captain's hat and began turning it over and over in his hands. "This is all because of me and my lousy temper, and my misuse of authority. Gilligan doesn't mean to be a screw up. He just is. He can no more change his ways than the sun can start rising in the West. But why should I change _mine_? I am the Captain, after all. And the Captain's orders must be obeyed!"

The Skipper heaved a huge sigh and continued staring up at the ceiling, as if all the answers to his questions would come raining down from between the rustling palm fronds. But they didn't, and he was left feeling empty and dejected.


End file.
